


Night at the Museum

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're watching too many old crime movies, Matty. You're now officially banned from my Cagney collection. Bogey's out, too."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night at the Museum

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest for the prompt "night at the museum"
> 
> * * *

"Remind me what we're doing here again," John says.

"Hello? Getting some culture?" Matt answers. At John's skeptical look, he huffs out a breath. "Okay, fine. You remember Mrs. Ryerson in 4B? Her granddaughter is dating one of the artists and got Mrs. Ryerson some tickets, but it's free turkey dinner night at bingo and…"

"Mrs. Ryerson opted out of foie gras and pretentious pseudo-art in the wing of some hoighty-toighty museum for dry turkey roll and second-hand smoke at the community centre?"

Matt lifts a shoulder. "Basically, yeah."

"Smart woman."

Matt shakes his head, waves a hand around the room. He has to admit that the clientele is a bit above the guys who hang around Gametopia on a Friday night, and the first time he'd leaned down to squint at the price of one of the pieces he'd gasped so loudly that he almost made John spit out a mouthful of wine, but he was _never_ going to admit that he was out of his element here. Never. No way. "Hey, I know it's not nearly as exciting as watching a bunch of overgrown freaks of nature chase a ball down a hardcourt, but—"

"Actually, I like this one," John says.

It might actually do them some good to hang out with people who've never heard of _Masters of Armageddon_ and don't have Wilson Chandler's stats memorized. He scans the crowd silently. He'd bet that the woman in the low cut sequins has no idea what a three point guard is. The dude in the bow tie wouldn't have a clue how to escape a quad power stealth attack by a minion of Asgarabet. And that guy by the painting—

"Yeah, this one doesn't suck. It's simple," John says, nudging him with an elbow. Matt frowns, glances back to where John is bent over a tiny sculpture of a bee. "Just an insect. Not tryin' to be something it ain't."

"John. Take a look at that guy by the painting."

"Even the title of the thing is simple. 'Bumble'. That's it."

"John!" Matt whispers. "That guy by the painting."

"What're you talking about, kid? Speak up."

"He looks _shifty_!"

John finally stands and looks over to where Matt is oh-so-subtly pointing, takes the dude in from wing tips to precisely knotted silk tie. " _That_ guy?" he asks dubiously.

"He's up to something!" Matt insists. "I think he's casing the joint!"

"Casing the…." John shakes his head. "You're watching too many old crime movies, Matty. You're now officially banned from my Cagney collection. Bogey's out, too."

Matt throws up his hands. The beady eyes, the intent gaze, the way the guy keeps flicking his attention between the canvas and the flickering exit sign. Is John _blind_? Who's the detective here, anyway? "I'm telling you, he's planning a heist!"

"Just take a look at this bumblebee, would ya?" John says. "'Course, the asking price is about three mortgage payments—"

"John!"

"All right," John says. "Come on."

"All right?" Matt repeats. "What do you mean by—ow! Hey! This happens to be a classic seersucker from the '70's and it's not meant to be manhandled!"

John ignores him completely. In fact, Matt's fairly certain he tightens the hand that's fisted in his lapel. He stumbles over his feet as John practically drags him across the room, and when he sees where John is headed he tries to dig in his heels, he really does, but _c'mon_. When John's got his mind set on something, he's the tractor and Matt's the hay bale. 

"Excuse me?" John says.

"You're gonna get us killed!" Matt hisses.

John ignores him – again – and plasters on a smile when the man in the expensive D&G turns to him. "Detective John McClane, NYPD," he introduces himself. The hand that's no longer ruining the classic line of Matt's powder blue suit jacket gestures toward him. "My partner, Matt Farrell. Sorry to interrupt, but we get the feeling we know you from somewhere. You from 57 Division down in Brooklyn?"

"Not exactly," the man answers, and yeah, that upper-crust British accent wouldn't play in the boroughs. When he holds out his hand, Matt can't help blinking at the obvious manicure. Dude would've gotten creamed in his old neighbourhood in Jersey. "David Pruitt-Price," he says.

"Aaaah," John says. He waves a hand toward the paintings on the walls. "You one of the—"

"Patrons, yes," Pruitt-Price answers. "My family has been privileged enough to work with several of the young artists in this series." 

He gestures with a wine glass to the overlarge mural hanging on the wall nearest them. As far as Matt can tell, it appears to be a fuzzy rendering of a buffalo in a field of wildflowers. He wrinkles his nose, tilts his head and reconsiders. It might also be a flamenco dancer. Or possibly an overweight horned man on a merry go round.

"This one is a particular favourite," Stiff Upper Lip is saying. "The rendering of the colours, the precise yet slightly skewed point of view combined with the purity of the lines. Stunning, isn't it?"

"It's somethin', all right," John says. He lifts a hand. "Sorry to bother ya."

"Not at all," Pruitt-Price says. "Always a pleasure to speak to one of New York's Finest."

John nods, and when they walk away he lets Matt move under his own power. Good thing, 'cause the stitches on these retro classics aren't always the best and if his jacket is ruined tonight it's going to be McClane paying for the tailor to repair it. 

"Still think he's casing the joint?" John asks with a snicker when they head back toward his stupid bumblebee sculpture.

"Shut up," Matt mutters.

* * *

Only John McClane would run into someone whose life he saved at a snooty west-side art show. Of course, only John McClane has been personally responsible for rescuing approximately the same number of people as Captain America.

Matt vaguely recognizes the guy from the grainy black and white photo that was printed in the paper after the attempted bank robbery. This was pre-firesale but post-treasury-theft, and Matt found the story on the library microfiche back when he was obsessively investigating every aspect of McClane's life. The Warlock called it stalking. Matt called it research.

He listens for a second while John and the old guy shoot the shit, then wanders off. They're apparently into the abstract section of the gallery, because he can't recognize a single subject in either the paintings or the sculptures and he's starting to think he's in the wrong line of work, because there's a little SOLD tag next to a 5K canvas that looks _exactly_ like what was left over on the drop cloth after he painted his bedroom ceiling last spring.

But he's glad when his attention wanders, because that's when he sees the guy with the knife. 

Okay. So maybe he was wrong about Mr. Patron of the Arts. But he studies the guy standing by the table of hors d'oeuvres for a good three minutes and that? That is a _knife_. He's fidgety, pulling it halfway out of his pocket, sliding his thumb along the length before shoving it back into his trousers. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet and slides the knife in and out, in and out and oh my god he has to find John.

Thankfully the old dude has moved on. He hijacks John halfway across the room and says, "I know you're not going to believe me but there's a guy over there—"

John groans. "Jesus, Matt."

"—with a knife. I swear to god he's got a knife in his pocket—"

"This is an art gallery, not Brownsville, for fuck's sake."

"—and if you'll just _look_ you'll see that I'm not—"

"Fine," John says, holding up a hand. "Where is this menace to society?"

For a brief panic-strewn moment Matt thinks the guy has disappeared before he spots him standing next to a woman in a long floral dress. "There," he says. "And if you'll just _watch_ , he's got it in his pocket and he—" 

"I see it," John bites out. Matt's eyes flick to John's. Still and sharp, John transforms himself in a heartbeat to the guy who faced down Gabriel without blinking an eye. It's scary. Also hot, but mostly scary. "Stay here."

"Wait!" Matt says. His fingers curl around John's bicep and he can feel the tension thrumming through John's arm. "What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna take care of it," John snaps. "What do you think I'm gonna do?"

Matt can only watch as John strides purposefully across the room. And deliberately walks into the guy, sending the knife flying.

"Oh shit," John says loudly, "sorry about that, fella."

"Perfectly all right," the man says. "They never allow quite enough room in—"

"Oh hey," John continues as he bends to the hardwood, "you dropped your… key chain."

The look John shoots him at that moment could possibly melt glass. And not in the _get in the bedroom now_ kind of way. 

"Aaaah, thank you," the Guy Who Does Not Have A Knife says. Matt winces as John drops the item into the man's outstretched hand, and the guy spins the tiny cylindrical silver object over and under his fingers before sliding a thumb along the edge and slipping it back into his pocket. "Nervous habit."

"Sorry again about the… clumsiness," John says as he backs away.

Knifeless Man nods. "All is forgiven, my friend."

"John," Matt tries when John strides back toward him.

"Don't."

"But even you thought it looked—"

"I need another drink," John says as he moves past him. "You're givin' me a damn headache."

* * *

Matt decides it's a good idea to steer clear of John for a while. Because despite recent events, he's not actually stupid. He's just apparently got a very good imagination. And, he plans to point out to John once it's safe to talk to him again, he's also got a well-defined instinct for right and wrong. Anybody else might have just let their suspicions go and kept quiet, not wanted to cause a fuss, but not him. He's fighting for truth and justice here. That ought to win him some points back into the plus column.

But when he notices a man in a non-descript brown sports-coat eying an oblivious woman in a slinky black number, he faces a conundrum. Tell John and risk being wrong again, or keep quiet and potentially allow a serious crime to happen? 

He decides to wait. He shadows the woman unobtrusively, hovering for a time behind a six foot sculpture of what appears to be a giant foot and making sure to keep Cheap Suit in his peripheral vision. And sure enough, the guy always wanders in the same direction as the woman, even as he occasionally stops to shake a hand or chat briefly with someone else in the room.

But even though Matt is watching carefully, it still shocks him when the man suddenly grabs the woman around the waist and shoves her violently into another room, closing the door behind them. The woman didn't even have time to scream.

For a long moment, he is frozen in place. Then he whirls toward John, hovering again over that stupid bumblebee statue, and grabs him forcibly by the arm. 

"Jeeezus Christ, Matt, what now?"

"Do you have your gun?" Matt grits out. It's only been thirty seconds. Cheap Suit won't have had time to do anything yet. He hopes. He prays. He tows John toward the closed door.

"Matthew."

"He just dragged her inside there okay and I don't know what he's doing to her and _do you have your gun?_ " 

John digs in his heels. "Matt, enough! What the fuck is wrong with you, kid?"

Matt continues pulling for another ten seconds before he remembers – tractor versus hay bale. He releases John's arm, and only then realizes that all the chatter in the room has gone silent as everyone stares at the two of them. It doesn't matter. He's got to save the woman!

"Fine! I'll do it myself!" he says loudly. He's aware on some level of John shadowing him as he runs the remaining twenty feet to the door. He take a deep breath before flinging it wide – and finds ol' Cheap Suit bending over the woman, his face buried in her neck and his hand questing beneath her short dress.

"See! I told you!" Matt crows. He spins back toward the disheveled couple, flings out his arm. "Get off her, you animal!"

"Matt Farrell," John says from behind him. "Like to introduce you to Councilman John Barbieri and his wife, Linda."

* * *

"Well," John says as he zips up his jacket and tucks his hands into his pockets, "that's the first time I ever got kicked out of a museum."

"I'm _sorry_ ," Matt says for the fifth time. Or maybe the sixth. He lost track when they were being escorted out by armed gallery security. 

"Nah, it's okay," John says. "Least you tried to do somethin'. Half the people in this town would turn a blind eye to shit like that. None of their business."

"See, that's one of the points I was going to make to you when we got back to your place tonight! I was trying to work in a reference to Superman as well, but it wasn't really solidified in my head yet." 

"Superman, huh?"

"It was a work in progress," Matt says.

John flings an arm around his shoulder as they make their way down the stairs. "Might not be Superman, but you're a good kid, Matty."

"Only room for one superhero in the family, anyway," Matt says. "Hey, we've still got time to make the last few rounds of bingo over at the Shriners hall. What do you say, wanna surprise Mrs. Ryerson?"

"Thinkin' maybe an early night," John says. "Know this kid who got me all worked up tonight. Need to relieve some tension."

"I'm down," Matt says. "And then up. Then down, then up…"

John groans.

"It's a good workout – works the calf muscles, the inner thighs, good for the stomach…"

"You still talkin'?" John asks when they get to the car. "Get in."

Matt grins. "I love it when you're all forceful."

When John gives him the melting glass look again, this time it definitely means _get in the bedroom now_. Matt can get behind that.

On the drive back to Brooklyn, Matt discreetly sends a couple of texts to the gallery owner. That stupid bumblebee is going to look _great_ on John's mantle.


End file.
